


down on thirty-fourth and vine

by malfaisant



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 13:50:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7978966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfaisant/pseuds/malfaisant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Okay, so, a plan,” Ray starts with a snap of his fingers, “I figure since it didn’t make you wanna jump me last night, it probably doesn’t affect everyone, right?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the working title for this fic was 'gratuitous objectification of ray kowalski', so take that as you will. this is definitely the most ridiculously self-indulgent thing I've ever written, and as always, it's Kiran's fault.
> 
> currently aiming for weekly updates, so it shouldn't be a WIP for long.

It’s the height of summer, hot outside and sticky-sweet, and the club has the air conditioners on full blast. Ray understands, the club doesn’t want its dancers dying of heatstroke, but it means the club is _freezing_ outside the throng of bodies on the main floor. Sweat is cooling rapidly on his skin and making him feel all clammy, though the drug dealer leering at him probably had more to do with the gross, skin-crawling feeling that’s making him want to punch someone’s teeth in.

Tight pants, tight shirt, helluva lot of eyeliner. Frannie had a lot of fun dolling him up, and Ray hadn't had the heart to tell her he didn’t need the help. Ray hasn’t worn these pants in years, and he’s feeling every single one of those years pinching in places that don’t bear mentioning. The dealer, Daniel Kornick, is eyeing those places too, martini in hand, smirking at Ray like he’s the last piece of cake—like the last piece of some really, _really_ slutty cake—and being handsy as fuck. And yes, Ray definitely wants to punch his teeth in, but instead he toughs it out, grins and bears it and flirts his skinny little ass off like his life depends on it.

Well, the case depends on it, and his job is basically his life, so in a way, it sorta does. Him and Fraser have been working the case for two months now with Vice, and he can’t jeopardise it all just because the shady drug dealer is giving him the heebie jeebies. Creepy’s part of his job description. Granted, Kornick’s a grade-A, world-class _creep_ , some eurotrash douchebag with coiffed hair and too-white teeth and all the sleaze and charisma of a used car salesman. And he is _seriously_ fucking handsy, an arm slung around Ray’s shoulders, his fingers brushing the side of his neck, his other hand suggestively caressing Ray’s thigh.

But...two months. Two whole months of work. Ray forces himself to lean into the touch, flashes the slimeball his best smile.

“Up for some fun? Maybe you can take one of my toys for a test run,” Kornick whispers in his ear. Ray shudders in disgust and hopes he managed to pass it off as lust.

After all, undercover is his specialty. Grapevine says anything goes but leggy blond(e)s are Kornick’s type, and Vice can't send in Desoto or Parker, something about departmental image PR reasons, so they go to the district next door and ask Welsh if they can borrow their old pal ‘Vecchio’, pretty please. And what the hell, he actually _did_ work Vice a couple of years back and Desoto’s a friend, so in Ray goes.

Kornick waves over one of his men, and a nameless goon comes forward with a small wooden box as Ray tries not to look too eager. Finally they’re getting somewhere. The proprietor of the club had been the one to tip them off on the deal, having wanted nothing to do with this weird new drug coming soon to a not-quite respectable establishment near you, but their intel had nothing on the whats or hows or really anything else that might be useful.

“Got a present for me?” says Ray, somehow succeeding to give the words a seductive cadence instead of what he really felt, which was somewhere on the wavelength of _die, fuckface, die._

Kornick laughs and opens the box. The inside is lined with red velvet, and nestled in them is a collection of glass vials, like the tiny perfume samples that sales ladies attack you with in department stores.

And yeah, they can nail the guy then and there but backup is approximately ten minutes out, according to his last check-in. Ray’s thinking he can maybe make the arrest by himself, because he cannot _wait_ to mirandize the shit out of Kornick, but there’s two mean-looking guys looming and glowering professionally behind the counter, in addition to the aforementioned goon, and the only thing Ray’s got on him is the dinky little ankle piece hidden in his boot, ‘cause the rest of his outfit doesn’t have much ( _any_ ) room for fuck all else. Kornick’s a slimeball, but he’s a paranoid slimeball.

Ray takes one of the vials and holds it up to the dim neon lighting of the club. The vial is filled with a clear, oily-looking liquid, topped with a small spray nozzle. He can’t begin to guess what it is, but he doesn’t think Kornick’s in the game for a new fragrance line, or even some nefarious new cure for haliwhatsits. Halitosis.

Jeez, he needs to stop hanging out with Fraser.

“What is it?” Ray asks.

Before Kornick can open his mouth to answer and sign his own arrest warrant, the music on the main floor cuts out, and then there are the sounds of some sort of commotion downstairs. Ray bets he knows exactly what sort of commotion.

“What in the hell…?“ Kornick shuts the box with a snap and gets to his feet. Ray palms the vial and thinks furiously of a way to stall. Backup’s still too far away and there are too many exits for him to cover all of them by himself. Hopefully Kornick and his men won’t be too fast on the uptake.

The decision is taken out of his hands when he hears Dewey yelling above the din, “Chicago PD! Everyone stay where you are!”

 _Fuck._ Ray grabs his gun from his ankle holster and points it at Kornick. “Chicago PD! Down on the ground!”

No luck, but Kornick’s bodyguards aren’t as stupid as they look. Two of them step forward while the third behind the counter whips out his own gun. They’re near enough that Ray doesn’t need his glasses and anyway, he’s got his gun digging into Kornick’s kidney, but right now they outnumber him four-to-one. Kornick stares at him with wide, panicked eyes, measuring his chances on whether Ray or goon number three has the faster trigger finger.

Ray bares his teeth, shoots him a grin. “Fucking _try me_.”

Suddenly, there’s a scream from the dance floor, then a gunshot—must be one of Kornick’s men downstairs. Ray’s eyes involuntarily flicker to the top of the staircase, and Kornick takes the second-long distraction to elbow Ray’s gun out of the way.

Ray keeps ahold of the gun, but now he’s slightly off-balance. He grabs Kornick’s wrist with his free hand to keep him close, make sure his men don’t get a clear shot. Kornick tries to bash his nose in with the box, and Ray pulls up his forearm to block him. He grabs the box and pulls Kornick forward hard, a tug of war, Kornick pulling back for a moment—but only for a moment. To Ray’s surprise, he lets go, and Ray stumbles back and down on his ass against the wall, sending the box flying through the air.

Almost as if Ray was watching the whole thing in slow motion, the box crashes against the wall above him, the latch breaking, the tiny glass vials shattering, their contents spilling all over…

Spilling all over _him_.

Ray covers his head with his hands as glass and wooden splinters and whatever the fuck was in those vials rain down over him, but he doesn’t have so much as a second to worry about what it was he just got drenched with. A bullet narrowly misses his head and lodges into the wall behind him, and he ducks for cover behind the couch. The liquid is cold and slick, soaking into his hair, running down the back of his neck, and he blinks the stuff out of his eyes in mild panic.

He doesn’t feel any different, so here’s to hoping that he can’t get fucked up just from getting showered by the stuff.

A couple more shots above his head. He hears the sound of someone reloading and jumps up from behind the couch, catching one goon in the shoulder with a shot of his own, and then the other in the leg. Kornick is hightailing it outta there, and Ray makes to run after him when one of Kornick’s men, who’s been hiding behind the counter, blindsides him like a quarterback and pushes him up against the wall.

The gun’s knocked out of his hand, but it doesn’t seem like the other guy is packing, ‘cause he’s grappling Ray with his bare hands instead of shooting him in the head. The goon is twice his size, pins him easy with an arm braced against his neck, and Ray’s dazed where his head hit the wall, his blood pumping, his heart racing, and then—

And then the guy is feeling him up, a hand groping his ass, face leaning close to nuzzle at his neck and _smelling_ him, rubbing his hard-on against his thigh and _what the ACTUAL FLYING FUCK—_

Ray knees the guy in the balls, follows it up with a cross to the jaw. The guy doubles over, but he’s still standing, charges at Ray and catches him around the waist in a tackle, taking them both to the ground. And he can’t fucking believe this, the guy is _still_ trying to make intimate with him, trying to rip off his shirt and halfway succeeding when someone pulls him off of Ray.

God save the queen, the cavalry's finally arrived. Fraser socks the guy in the face, one, two, _pow_ , and it’s lights out for henchman number three, crumpling to the floor like a sack of wet cement. Then it’s just Fraser, standing over Ray in all his red, Canadian glory, though it looks like his hat’s been knocked off in the fighting downstairs.

“What took you so long?” Ray says. His _virtue_ had nearly been in danger.

“Sorry, Ray,” Fraser says as he pulls Ray to his feet. “It seems as though Mr. Kornick had more men in the establishment than we expected—”

Fraser cuts off, his eyes going wide and bright as headlights, his face turning as red as his uniform. They stay there for a moment, Fraser still holding Ray’s hand, standing just a little too close, and Ray blinks at him in confusion.

(Ray—Ray’s just close enough to, his mouth is right  _there_ —)

“Fraser?” he asks, voice unexpectedly hoarse. _Christ_ , _Kowalski,_ he tells himself. _Get a fucking grip_.

Fraser blinks back at him, suddenly looking faintly alarmed. He takes a large step back, then another, and coughs into his fist. “Are you alright, Ray?”

Ray shifts in place, scratches the back of his head, feeling kinda sheepish. His hand comes away damp with blood and the unknown substance—he almost forgot, in all the excitement. As far as fights for his life went, that one takes the trophy for, if not the weirdest, then definitely the most uncomfortable.

He pulls the vial out of his jeans pocket, miraculously still intact. At least the whole night hadn’t been a bust.

“I don’t know,” Ray says, “but we should probably get this to the lab asap.”

*

There isn’t much of the drug left that could be recovered, aside from the one vial Ray managed to save. Forensics technicians arrive at the club to salvage whatever of the samples did not end up on Ray’s person, which wasn’t very much at all.

“Two months of work. Two months of work! Kornick was right there and I had him, I nearly had him.”

Ray sits gloomily on the rear bumper of the ambulance, covered up in a bright orange blanket. A bandage is wrapped around the wound on the back of his head, flattening tufts of his hair, so that he appeared somewhat like battered dandelion, though Fraser keeps the observation to himself. He doubts that Ray would appreciate the comparison.

Ray will similarly fail to appreciate any reassurances that all his efforts did not go to waste, that he successfully obtained a sample of the unknown drug and no one was seriously hurt, so Fraser refrains from offering any. Though Ray is in dire need of positive reinforcement, he reacts rather adversely to even the slightest suspicion that he’s being patronized. It’s a fine line, and one that Fraser can admit he is prone to tripping over occasionally, when it comes to Ray.

In any case, any assurances on his part will only be half-hearted. He can’t help but think that Ray’s concerns are paltry by comparison, his priorities rather skewed. Who _cares_ about Kornick? Maybe Fraser might have, if he isn’t currently preoccupied with worrying for Ray’s well-being in his stead, since Ray can't even be bothered to even make a show of it, if only to placate him.

“A real shame,” says Detective Elena Desoto, their main liaison from the Vice unit. “All that eyelash-fluttering and for what?” she adds, grinning.

“Fuck you, Desoto,” Ray says, but there’s no heat in the words, only the sort of amicable mockery between old friends. As Ray’s former colleague, there’s an easiness to Det. Desoto’s interactions with him that spoke of their past association, and Fraser is uncertain why he’s so surprised, even now. Surely he can’t have thought that he was Ray’s only friend, or even the only one who would be capable of comforting him.

“Seriously, Vecchio, don’t beat yourself up too bad about it.” Desoto leans back against the ambulance besides Ray and gives him a hearty pat on his shoulder. “We have enough for forensics to work with, at least. I’ll forward the full report once they’re done, so hopefully we’ll soon have some idea of what we’re up against.”

“I should drop by the station, tell the Lieu what went down.”

Fraser opens his mouth to protest, but Desoto beats him to it. “No, you’re getting your ass to the hospital. I’ll tell Welsh, since I have to drop by the 2-7 anyway. Constable?” She turns to Fraser. “I trust I can leave Ray in your capable hands.”

“I’m right here,” Ray grumbles, but Fraser nods solemnly.

“Of course, Detective. I’ll make certain Ray receives the proper medical attention,” he says. Desoto winks at him, and to Ray she gives a casual two-finger salute, to which Ray responds with a wave of a hand as goodbye, or perhaps to shoo her away. They watch her retreating figure as she makes her way to her car, hands in her pockets.

As Desoto’s car vanishes from view, Fraser turns his attention back to Ray, who has resumed his sulking in full force.

The EMTs on site have already examined Ray for telltale signs of the drug in his system, any symptoms of overdose, but without knowing the properties of the drug in question, they couldn’t say what form of symptoms to expect, if any at all.

“Although we can assume that the drug wasn’t correctly administered in your case,” Fraser says, “we can’t discount the possibility that there’s a latency period between when the drug is administered and when the drug actually takes effect.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been half an hour and I feel fine. I don’t think you’re supposed to take a bath in it.”

Fraser tugs at the collar of his uniform. The air is hot and stifling, baked heat rising from the concrete. He’s feeling somewhat…agitated, uncomfortable in his own skin, as though Ray’s usual twitchiness is manifesting through _him_ , desperate for some sort of outlet, perhaps to compensate for Ray’s seeming insouciance.

(Desperation certainly factored somewhere in the equation, but Fraser isn’t all that eager to look too closely, for fear of discovering precisely where.)

“Nevertheless, the nozzle on the vial suggests that the drug might be ingested orally, nasally, or by absorption through the skin,” Fraser finally says. All of those options are cause enough for worry.

Then he hesitates for a second, but a second is all he manages. “Are you sure you’re alright, Ray?” he asks, for what is possibly the third time in less than half an hour. He’s aware that he’s hovering, he _knows_ , but as with a lot of matters concerning Ray, self-awareness doesn’t translate into self-restraint as perfectly as he’d like it to. And if he’s being overbearing, it’s not as if Ray would have any compunction in telling him to—

“Shove _it_ , Fraser,” says Ray, throwing his head back and rolling his eyes.

“Well, you will at least let them take you to the hospital for further observation.”

“I know that, you don’t gotta tell me that,” Ray replies. “Won’t let them let me go unless they give me a perfect bill of health,” he adds and, as if to make a counterpoint, takes out a battered packet of cigarettes from his back pocket.

Fraser stares pointedly at Ray as he puts a cigarette to his lips and takes out his lighter.

“What?” Ray says, defensively.

“Oh, I don’t know, Ray. Why shouldn’t you introduce more foreign stimulants into your system in your current condition?” he replies, turning to sarcasm in his frustration.

“Man you’re pissy today. Are you mad you didn’t get to jump through a window this time or something?"

“I am _not_ pissy—”

“I just got a gallon of some unknown drug dunked on my head, but of course it’s the smoking that’s gonna kill me,” Ray says, but puts away the unlit cigarette regardless. “Alright, whatever, no need to make the disappointed Mountie eyes at me.”

God, but the man can be utterly exasperating. “I was doing no such thing.”

“Right.”

“It’s just doesn't seem sensible to take an undue risk—”

Ray rolls his eyes again, perhaps for good measure. “I got it, Fraser. Jeez, you’re worse than my mother.”

Fraser ignores the jab and asks, “Shall I accompany you to the hospital?”

“Nah, you stay here, talk to people. Maybe somebody knows something about where Kornick’s holed up.”

“I’m certain detectives Huey and Dewey are more than capable of taking eyewitness statements.”

“I’m _fine_ , Fraser.”

“But Ray—”

“What, I don’t know how to ride an ambulance now?”

Leave it to Ray to take it as some affront to his competence. Fraser holds back a sigh. “I’m not saying you can’t, Ray—”

“Look, I appreciate you saving my ass, but that doesn’t mean I need my hand held—”

“Ray. _Ray_ —”

“—to go to the damn hospi—what?!”

Fraser opens his mouth to reply when a warm gust of summer wind blows past them. He freezes in place, suddenly inundated with—there was a book in his grandmother’s library on the neuroanatomy of memory, the text so small he had needed to squint—the olfactory system is directly connected to the amygdala and the hippocampus, the areas of the brain most strongly implicated in the encoding of complex memory, hence why simple olfactory cues can so easily trigger strong emotion, vivid remembrances—

He remembers how he’d found Ray in the club—fear at the sound of gunshots, anger as he fought off Ray’s attacker, and then relief at finding Ray okay...Ray, lying on the ground, breathing hard, damp hair curled against his forehead and his shirt half-torn. Then a hand, warm in his own. And Ray had smelled _wonderful_ , skin flushed in exertion, his eyes bright electric blue against the kohl, and his  _smell_ —

“Fraser. Fraser!” Ray snaps his finger twice in front of his face. “Earth to Canada, do you copy?”

Fraser startles out of his reverie with an embarrassing lack of grace or subtlety. He stumbles back a step, and lowers his eyes to the ground, suddenly afraid of meeting Ray’s gaze.

There is something dangerously off-kilter with him tonight, but he’ll have to leave the introspection for later, for when it doesn’t feel like he’s barely holding onto the frayed ends of his self-control.

“Are you sure _you’re_ alright?” Ray asks.

Fraser tugs again at his collar, overly warm in a way that had nothing to do with the summer heat. “I’m sorry. I was just…distracted.” He straightens his posture. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Ray is still frowning. “You know, maybe you should come with me to the hospital after all,” he says slowly.

Fraser pauses. Disinclined as he still was to leave Ray alone, it’s obvious now that his aren’t what you’d call purely altruistic motivations. A safer course of action, then.

“Fine,” he finally says, voice carefully level. “No, you’ve convinced me. I’ll defer to your good judgement at this time and stay here, where my help is more needed. There’s an entire club’s worth of people to interview.”

Ray puts a hand up to his temple. “Sometimes I seriously think you want me to kick you in the head.”

“I’m not trying to be difficult, Ray.”

Ray glares at him, but seems to deflate almost immediately. He sighs. “Yeah, yeah. I know. You’re really okay?” he asks, all traces of his earlier hostility gone, replaced with genuine concern.

Of course Ray has no trouble worrying about _other_ people.

“Truly. I’ll come by the hospital later this evening and bring you a change of clothes,” Fraser replies, and to his credit, he even sounds convincingly composed.

Ray looks at him, still skeptical, but nods. “Okay.” A beat. “Freak.”

“I’ll see you later, Ray,” Fraser says, forcing a smile, and makes for the entrance of the club, but not before catching sight of the expression on Ray’s face, confused and slightly lost.

*

Alright, that was _weird._ Not that Fraser isn’t usually a weirdo, but even for him... 

The thing is, Ray has hunches, has practically made a career of listening to his gut and hoping it doesn’t get him killed, and right now his gut’s telling him something’s wrong, something’s off, something is goddamn _queer_. So when the doctors poke at him, he’s braced for bad news, but the doctors can’t find anything wrong—elevated heart rate, abnormal body temperature, itchy mouth—nada, zip, bupkis. All they can do is outfit him in a hospital gown and keep him overnight for observation, and Ray lets them.

The nurse _and_ the doctor being flirty with him is something that Ray will only realise later, in hindsight. At the time, Ray just brushes it off, too tired to notice, let alone flirt back. Too tired to flirt, yeah. Maybe the drug’s secretly a sedative.

As promised, Fraser drops by just past midnight with a change of clothes for Ray, looking a lot more normal, or at least a lot less fidgety than before. Fraser’s baseline doesn’t really fit any known definition of normal. So Ray's best guess is, it was a case of nerves after kicking some bad guy butt, and he'd been too polite to really give Ray a hard time about letting Kornick slip away.

Fraser is keeping his distance this time, because maybe he’s got self-preservation instincts after all, and Ray is still potentially contaminated. At least he hasn’t offered to _lick_ Ray to find out the chemical composition of said contaminants, like Ray had half-expected him to, thank god. Ray can only take so much before he jumps the guy or socks him in the jaw, and he’s already done one of two.

Fraser does offer to stay overnight in the waiting room though. Ray pushes him out the door before he even finishes the sentence.

“Go home, get some beauty sleep, alright? They’re discharging me in the morning,” he tells him. “I’ll see you at the precinct tomorrow, good as new. Now _scram_.”

Fraser visibly bites back a protest but agrees with him, says “Alright, Ray” like a good Mountie. Okay, so maybe still a little weird. Weirder. Ray watches him walk down the hallway towards the double doors, and was it just him or is Fraser walking a bit more stiffly than usual?

Ray blinks, then shakes his head, and chalks it up to Fraser being a weirdo. Accepting that Fraser just doesn’t make any sense is the easiest way to make everything _else_ make sense. If that makes sense. Whatever. He’s tired, and rambling, and the hospital bed is comfortable enough.

If he had been less tired, he might have cottoned on to everything earlier than way too late, some detective he was, but then again, maybe not. He’s been broadcasting signals since practically day one, like green light-go, do not stop, do not collect $20, and gotten...nothing. Complete radio fucking silence. So these days, he’s just determined to suck it up and deal. Don’t read too much into anything, ‘cause none of it means nothing. Fraser is nice to _everyone_ , get that into your dumb Polish head.

But again, all of that’s a hindsight thing. Stubbornly ignoring something—one _specific_ thing—on purpose for an extended period of time can cultivate a hell of a blind-spot, and his eyesight’s already none too good.


	2. Chapter 2

Ray Kowalski’s day starts out pretty damn great, especially considering he started it out by waking up in a hospital.

The doctor signs him out with that clean bill of health he promised Fraser, handing him the discharge papers to sign with a wide smile. “If you’re experiencing any trouble whatsoever, any onset of symptoms, please call me. Here’s my direct number.”

“Oh. Thanks, doc,” says Ray.

“Anything for Chicago’s finest,” replies Dr. Great-Bedside-Manner, and if he’s a bit _too_ nice about it, Ray just smiles back, a bit confused but not about to question it.

Then a resident walks him all the way out the door and asks him out to coffee, and Ray takes her number too. She has long blonde hair and a killer smile, so he pockets the slip of paper and makes plans to call her once they wrap up the Kornick case. This time he might even be able to avoid accusing her of being a criminal mastermind.

And maybe it’s the pep in his step, but he doesn’t think he’s hallucinating the two, three women making eyes at him on the way to hail a cab. Girls love a guy with confidence, right? But then the cab driver waives his fare…and then the food cart vendor gives him a free bagel with his coffee…and then Mrs. Agniezka, the lady renting him the garage, invites him up for tea when he picks up the Goat, a little too insistently…

Alright, so he’s pretty solidly weirded out by the time he’s driving to the 2-7, but maybe he’s just having a _really_ good day. Everyone has those occasionally—hell, if that’s true, he’s overdue one by years.

But when the sweet old lady he holds the precinct door for repays his extra second of courtesy (thanks, Fraser) by pinching his ass, he hightails it into the office and smacks his hands flat on the top of Frannie’s desk.

“Tell me you got the lab tests in from the bust last night,” he says.

Ray sees, like visibly _sees_ , the moment when Frannie’s annoyed response, the “A _hello_ and _please_  would be nice, asshole” so far on the tip of her tongue that he almost hears it, transforms into…whatever the fuck this is. It takes him a moment to place the expression on her face before he realises where he’s seen it before. He sees it almost everyday, after all, just not directed at him.

Frannie pauses, her eyes glazing over for a moment, and then she bats her eyelashes at him, even though there’s no red serge to be found in a 20-foot radius. “Hi, Ray,” she says, all sultry-like.

“Vecchio!” yells a voice from behind. “The lab rats from Vice sent up their reports from the Kornick bust and you are gonna want to…”

Ray slowly turns around, the dread in his stomach making way for full-blown horror. Maybe if he does it slowly enough, he’ll wake up in the hospital to the doctors telling him he’s hallucinating from the worst drug known to medical science and has like, three days to live, a week tops.

No dice. Dewey trails off mid-sentence, folder in hand pretty much forgotten. “Ray, d’you get a new cologne? It smells…really nice,” he finishes, suddenly looking confused when the words don’t magically reform themselves into an insult. He tries again. “You smell really nice,” he says, smiling.

“Oh, shit,” Ray replies.

*

Fraser arrives at the 2-7 just half-past noon, and is met with the precinct’s usual organised chaos. He moves through the station—past the group of mime artists being transferred to holding, making rude, silent gestures at the group of clowns across the room, who were honking their prosthetic noses in response—and makes his way to Ray’s desk, though Ray is nowhere to be found. Which isn’t unusual in itself, except everyone else at the station seems to be searching for him as well.

“Hey, Fraser, you seen Vecchio?” says Huey, as Fraser rifled through the clutter on Ray’s desk; perhaps Ray might’ve left a note. Dewey and Francesca are looking at him over Huey’s shoulder, involved in an impassioned argument with each other.

“—just don’t get how much guys love sports. I mean, romantic candle-lit dinner? Face it, Frannie, that’s chick stuff, and no way Ray would pass up tickets to a Hawks game.”

“It’s dinner and _dancing,_ which if you really knew him like I did, you’d know he’s crazy for,” Frannie says smartly.

“And I already told you both, I got you beat,” Huey interceded, to Fraser’s increasing incredulity. “The auto show at McCormick this Saturday. The man loves his cars.”

Are they— _are they arguing about—_

“I—forgive me, but I was looking for Ray as well,” says Fraser. He pulls at the collar of his uniform. “Has something happened to him?”

“Don Juan here,” says Francesca, staring pointedly at Dewey, “came on too strong and scared him off, and now no one knows where’s gone to.”

“Hey! I’m not the one who suddenly started feeling him up—”

As Francesca and Dewey resume their debate on their respective romantic compatibilities with Ray Kowalski, Fraser decides to make his quiet retreat, before his brain capitulated and decided it’ll have that aneurysm after all.

He makes his way out to the hallway and thinks through the possibilities, determined to analyse the situation logically:

a) the whole station has gone insane, or else is suffering from some sort of mass delusion;

b) _he’s_ finally gone insane, which statistically speaking is a far more likely possibility, given that none of his colleagues at the CPD seem inclined to converse with the ghost of their dead fathers on a regular basis;

c) everyone else has finally realised what Fraser knew all along, that Ray is an impossibly attractive individual, and have all simultaneously decided to make their attentions known to him, with total indifference to previously assumed orientations, and an astonishing open-mindedness towards homosexuality on the part of his male colleagues;

d) Fraser’s own attentions have been noticed, he’s been terribly obvious after all, and this is all cruel joke at his expense—

“PSSSTTTT. _FRASER_.”

Fraser stops in his tracks and turns around in a circle, searching for the source of the sound, when someone grabs him from behind, clamps a hand over his mouth, and pulls him into the utility closet.

He freezes. The sudden disorientation makes his head swim. His heart is beating in double time, pounding against his ribcage as though it meant to escape. He closes his eyes, hyper-aware of the warm hand against his mouth, the press of a strong, lean body up against his front, pushing him against the back of the closet door. In this enclosed space, the smell is so strong he nearly shivers with it.

Thank god for small mercies, because Ray’s hand finally falls away. Ray retreats back a couple of steps, an instantaneous loss of heat and pressure, giving him space to breathe.

“What took you so long? I’ve been hiding in here for ages.”

Fraser doesn’t move right away, doesn’t open his eyes right away, keeps his back pressed up against the door until he recovers a semblance of calm, if not control. When it felt as though his heart rate had receded to below that of hummingbird’s, he opens his eyes and looks around slowly, keeping his breathing shallow. A dim light bulb hangs from the ceiling, swinging in a hypnotising circular motion.

“...Fraser?”

“Ray,” Fraser says, his voice surprisingly level. He pauses. “What are you doing hiding in the janitor’s closet?”

Ray, thankfully, seems entirely oblivious of his unease. “Because everyone’s lost their fucking _minds_ , is what,” he answers in a fierce whisper.

Before he could ask Ray to elaborate, Ray brandishes a packet of papers and pushes it onto his chest. It is the lab technician’s report, a write-up and analysis of the unknown drug from the Kornick operation. For several wordless minutes, Fraser speed-reads through the report, his eyebrows slowly rising to his hairline as he reads past "pheromone-based compound" and "intended to stimulate a reaction of physical attraction in others" and "triggers the release of endogenous chemicals synthesising the biochemical process of sexual desire."

Well, at least that explains his own outrageous behaviour from the previous evening. Cold comfort, in light of his current predicament, but he’s well acquainted with the aphorism that beggars can’t be choosers.

“...Ah.”

“Ah? _Ah_!? That’s what you gotta say? This is not an _ah_ situation, Fraser, this is a full-blown _oh shit_ situation,” Ray hisses. “What the hell is going on?”

Fraser closes his eyes, suddenly light-headed. _Area effect of stimulating low-level attraction over an immediate radius, but sharply reactive to the subject’s adrenal levels_ , he remembers reading.

“Ray. You must—you _have_ to calm down.”

Ray glares at him. “Don’t tell me to calm down, Fraser! I’ve been doused with this weird sex pheromone shit and I've had a really weird morning, and then to top it off everyone in the station’s been replaced with freaky pod people—”

“Your panicking is exacerbating the effects of the drug,” says Fraser, his voice pained. “Please. Calm. Down.”

“Oh.” A watery blink. “Hold on, what?”

“The drug reacts to adrenaline. Breathe slowly, and try to lower your heart rate,” he says, and is reminded of the last time he’d had to provide the same instructions, albeit to a different Ray. He tries not to think of how he would much prefer to have a bomb strapped to him again than have to spend one more second in this damn closet.

“...I freaked out a bit, and that made everyone else freak out?”

“Yes.”

“Shit.”

“Indeed.”

They’re both silent for the next few moments as Ray attempts to follow his advice, taking several deep breaths, leaving Fraser to his own quiet, horrified contemplation. He’s never been so desperately grateful for the uniform and its capacity for concealing, in addition to case files and folders, any and all sundry of personal humiliations.

“Okay, so, a plan,” Ray starts with a snap of his fingers, “I figure since it didn’t make you wanna jump me last night, it probably doesn’t affect everyone, right?” And that…that just isn’t fair. That is entirely unfair. This is beyond what one person can be made to endure, surely? Perhaps he had died and this is a singularly peculiar circle of hell.

Fraser entertains the very brief fantasy of showing Ray exactly how much the drug is failing to affect him, but only very briefly, such efforts being extremely counterproductive and liable to only backfire on him the longer he lingered on them.

“I’m not altogether certain we can assume that, Ray,” is what he eventually answers, his voice carefully neutral.

Ray frowns. “Well, it don’t affect everyone the same, and I should know.”

Fraser just nods.

“So let’s work the case. We call Desoto over, talk the case with Welsh. We need to tell them about the drug, and then we gotta find that bastard Kornick.”

Fraser privately thinks that the best course of action is actually for Ray to excuse himself from the case temporarily and make his way home, but Ray will surely object and pull them both into an argument, which will cause Ray’s adrenaline levels to spike, which in turn will cause Fraser to—that’s not important. In any case, compliance will best serve his most immediate objective, which is to escape this closet without further arousing Ray’s suspicion.

“Alright. Let’s speak with the lieutenant now. If we walk fast enough,” Fraser says, grimly, “we should be able to successfully avoid Detective Dewey’s attempts to ask you out on a date.”

*

So the lab tests come back, and turns out the drug is some sort of pheromone-based aphrodisiac whatever, like some love potion magic _bullshit_. What the fuck. What the fuuuck.

Ray ought to fire his gut for failing to warn him about this. Sure, he’d been expecting something bad, but his gut had been ringing a dainty little bell, a bicycle bell telling pedestrians to get out the way, instead of sounding the heavy-duty alarm klaxons, the disaster warning horns telling everyone to evacuate the beach because there’s a fucking tsunami on the way.

They manage to make it to Welsh’s office unmolested, Fraser having scouted ahead and directed Frannie’s search party elsewhere, having intimated (though not lied, _definitely_ not lied) that Ray might possibly be hiding down in the morgue with Mort.

After the coast was clear, Ray makes a beeline for Welsh’s office, grabbing Fraser’s sleeve on the way and dragging him close behind. At the slam of his office door, Welsh sighs, not bothering to look up from his paperwork, and with a certain level of resignation that Ray thought was a bit unwarranted. Okay, so he happens to be involved with a lot of the weird shit that goes down at the 2-7, but that’s cause he hangs out with _Fraser_.

“Detective Vecchio,” says Welsh. “Do I wish to know how I can assist you and the Constable on this fine, hitherto problem-free day?”

Then the Lieu stares at him, and frowns, his expression…Fraser would use a word like befuddled. Ray would say Welsh is looking at him like maybe he’s grown a second head and he’s trying to figure out how to bring it up without sounding crazy, in case he’s the only one who can actually see it. At least Welsh isn’t hitting on him. Oh god, please don’t let Welsh start hitting on him. Then he remembers what Fraser said and tells himself to stop freaking out. Deep breaths, Kowalski.

Fraser clears his throat loudly, and puts the lab report on Welsh’s desk. Then he steps back and stands at perfect parade rest, hands clasped behind his back.

“If you will refer to the document in front of you, Lieutenant,” he says, and launches into a detailed explanation of the drug and their current situation.

Ray leans by the doorway, a fair distance from everyone, and listens to Fraser’s speech with a glum expression. Adrenaline-activated, but it sounds like the drug can’t tell the difference between _wanna get laid_ -adrenaline and _fight for your life_ -adrenaline. So if he’s distressed, or chasing a suspect, or as by design, around the person he wants to fuck, he starts sending out signals, sending out _do me_ vibes that make people actually _want_ to do him. Dangerous enough, in the wrong hands. He thinks about how Kornick was planning on using it on him, and suppresses a shudder.

At least, they don’t have that to worry about. As long as he’s not planning on doing anything about it, seems like the worst they can expect from his accidental dosage is people acting weird around him. Can’t be all that effective, seeing as it doesn’t even work on Fraser. All it seems to do to Fraser is make him nauseous, none of that glazed, starry-eyed look everyone else is giving him, nope, nyet, _nosiree_. Instead, he just turns a little pale, a little green around the gills, like he’s about to be sick. Ray tries not to be too offended by it. Maybe something about the drug doesn’t react well to all that healthy Canadian-livin’.

“And that, as far as we’re aware, is a summation of the events as they’ve unfolded,” Fraser finishes.

“Well,” says Welsh, after a pause. “I was wondering why I briefly felt compelled to ask if Detective Vecchio had done something with his hair.” Ray winces. “Good to know there is, for a certain value of the word, a rational explanation for that temporary lapse of sanity.”

“How long before it wears off?” Ray asks Fraser, unable to keep the impatience out of his voice.

“Well, Ray, the report was inconclusive on that matter. The amount of the drug you were exposed to is certainly more than what is necessary, or even recommended, for its original function. I cannot imagine that any perpetrator who’d wish to use the drug for the nefarious purposes it's intended for would want the effects of a single dosage to last for more than several hours. However, we don't know how much a single dosage is, or how much you were exposed to, or if the drug has a limited efficacy period. One of those unknown variables might account for the rather aggressive advances you've been subjected to since this whole ordeal started.”

Even for Fraser, that is an impressive amount of words to say all in one breath. Welsh raises an eyebrow at that last statement. Ray breaks off from where he’s staring at Fraser and looks sheepishly down at his feet.

“The bullpen’s down in the morgue trying to, um, ask me out on a date.”

Welsh rubs his face in exasperation. “For Christ’s sake.”

“My thoughts exactly, sir,” says Ray solemnly.

“Are there any ways we know of to counteract the effects of the drug?”

“Short of putting Ray in a hermetically sealed room? None, sir,” Fraser says.

Welsh taps his pen on the desk thoughtfully for several moments, before leaning back in his chair. “Then I guess we have no choice. Detective, pack up your stuff and go home.”

Ray springs forward in protest. “But Lieu—”

“ _Kowalski_ ,” Welsh snaps, and the protest dies in Ray’s mouth. “I didn’t say I was taking you off the case, did I? But right now, I don’t want you anywhere near my station. Your presence here is disruptive to workplace productivity. If you stay, no one’s gonna get anything done, including you, since you’re gonna have to be fending off a host of drug-addled suitors. ”

He points to Fraser, who is still standing ramrod straight. “Constable Fraser, if you can kindly assist Detective Vecchio in escaping from the building with the least amount of commotion possible?”

Fraser nods.

“These are unusual circumstances, but will you be able to work with the detective, given his current condition?”

“Yeah, Fraser’s fine,” Ray answers easily, waving his hand dismissively. “I don’t know what, but looks like he’s immune to this chemical hoodoo.”

Welsh raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Is he now?”

“I—I can work with Ray, sir,” says Fraser, doing that neck stretching thing he does when he’s uncomfortable. Ray feels a bit guilty for volunteering him without asking, but he needs Fraser if he’s gonna be solving the case sooner rather than later, and he’s _really_ invested in sooner.

Welsh claps his hands together. “Then it’s settled. Go home and work the case there. Take whatever files you need. Desoto will be here in an hour, and I’ll send her over your way with a heads up on what to expect. Got it?”

*

As instructed, they make their way to the GTO with not a lot of fuss, Fraser having once again directed Ray’s entourage of admirers elsewhere. “Have you checked the evidence locker?" he had asked, innocently. "Ray has in the past made use of its relative solitude when he needs to think on a case. Perhaps he’s merely overwhelmed with the options you’ve presented him.” (None of these statements are untrue.)

His head bowed down, his hands shoved into his pockets—it’s odd, to observe Ray attempt to make himself small and unobtrusive as they briskly walked through the hallways. It also strikes Fraser as a somewhat futile endeavour, when everything from his dancer’s grace to his shock of blond hair serve as testament to the freneticism that animated him, an excess of energy barely contained as is. The dangerous volatility of a live wire, all electricity and magnetism—

Fraser tears his eyes away and looks down at his hands, fingers twisting his lanyard.

They cross the mercifully empty parking lot in silence. Fraser pauses with his hand on the handle of the passenger’s side door, trying to stamp down on the dread curling in the pit of his stomach at the prospect of sharing yet another enclosed space with Ray.

“Pitter patter, Fraser,” says Ray, already in the driver’s seat, his hands on the steering wheel. “This case ain’t gonna solve itself.”

Right. The case. Beneath the fear and worry that Ray will surely discover him, Fraser realises he is…disappointed at Ray’s obvious relief, inaccurate though it might be, that the drug does not work on him. Hard evidence that Ray doesn’t reciprocate his attraction, or at least not in the same way, as if he needed the reminder. He is not a little resentful of their present situation, that he isn't allowed even the slightest weakening of his defenses, even as it provides him with a most perfectly understandable excuse, taunts him with the most outrageous provocation…

No. _No_. Such a thought is unconscionably selfish, and dangerously unbecoming. Ray is depending on him, for his help as well as to provide some degree of normalcy. To anchor him. He cannot let him down simply because the mask he wears suddenly feels heavier than usual. It is important, now more than ever, that he exercise that self-control he so prided himself on, instead of taking it as license to indulge a weak will and a lonely heart. Such is the price to stay by his side, and framed in those terms, a small one for what he gets in return. No price can be too dear, or so he hopes.

He sits in the passenger’s seat, the Stetson in his lap. Normalcy, normalcy—he hangs onto the word like a talisman. “Would it be alright if we pick up Diefenbaker on the way?” he asks, smiling weakly at Ray.

“Sure thing, Frase.” Ray turns the key in the ignition, the car rumbling to life, a song drifting from the stereo’s speakers.

“— _gonna make it up right here in the sink / it smelled like turpentine, it looked like Indian ink / I held my nose, I closed my eyes, I took a drink_ —”

Ray stares for a moment, then switches the radio off angrily, letting out a steady stream of curses under his breath as he backed out of the parking spot.

They spend the short trip to the consulate in silence, and the best Fraser can say about it is that at no point did he _actually_ jump out of the moving car.

(The less said on exactly on _how_ close it may have come to that, the better.)


End file.
